


two slow dancers

by Metronomeblue



Category: The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals - Team StarKid
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Blood, Blood Bank Visits, Blood Drinking, Canon-adjacent, Charlotte has Issues, Denial, Emotionally Repressed, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Human/Vampire Relationship, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Infidelity, Mr. Davidson’s Anti-Antidepressant Punch, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Requited Unrequited Love, Unhealthy Relationships, Vague Ted Backstory, Vampire Bites, Vampires, every single vampire is a Mess, just a little differently, this starts pre-canon but will eventually go through the plot of tgwdlm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23674876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metronomeblue/pseuds/Metronomeblue
Summary: Ted should know better. He should really know better. Sam is older than him, stronger than him- Ted’s about as thick as a dandelion compared to most vampires, really- and Sam, unlike Ted, is married to Charlotte.But Ted, unlike Sam, loves her.————-AKA the Vampire AU nobody asked for
Relationships: Bill & Ted (The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals), Charlotte/Original Male Characters, Charlotte/Sam (The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals), Charlotte/Ted (The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals), Paul Matthews & Ted, Paul Matthews/Emma Perkins
Comments: 26
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is going to be uhhh something. I’m not 100% sure what, but I do have a lot planned out. 
> 
> 1\. Vampires can live off of anyone’s blood, but only the blood of the people they love most can sate their hunger. Sometimes that means a sibling or a best friend, sometimes it’s your spouse or your parent. Any kind of love results in a much stronger desire for that person’s blood. This can be a nice tie of intimacy that allows a vampire to all but curb their appetite or a curse that makes someone an uncontrollable threat to their own family.
> 
> 2\. Notable non-vampires include Charlotte, Paul, Alice, Mr. Davidson, and Zoey. 
> 
> 3\. Notable vampires include Ted, Emma, Hidgens, Bill, Sam, Deb, and Mr. Davidson’s hot vampire wife Carol.
> 
> 4\. This starts very Charlotte/Ted-centric, but as the story progresses it will (mostly) follow the plot of the musical, so further tags will be added as people gain prominence. So nobody gets mad at me for tagging people who aren’t Important yet. Y’know.

“You’re just like something outta my time,” Ted says, and it could be a statement, but it feels like a compliment. It’s full of fondness, affection, and Charlotte lets herself bask in it for a moment. Ted’s arms are cool, but gentle, supporting her, steering her through the dance.

“Is that a good thing?” 

“I meant it to be,” he shrugs, and Charlotte tilts her head. They let the music fill the spaces, and Ted hums along as they round into another turn. 

“Was it nice back then, Ted?” Her voice is hesitant, faltering, as if she’s afraid to ask, and he rubs his thumb where it rests on her waist. Sam doesn’t let her ask questions. Not about before, not about his past. Ted opens his arm out, lets go of her with his other hand, and for a moment Charlotte is afraid.

Ted doesn’t let go of her hand, though. Ted twirls her, lets her pretty, dark skirt swirl around her legs before he pulls her back in close, chin resting on her shoulder. “You wouldn’t have liked it,” he says quietly. 

“No?” Charlotte hums, and he can feel the warmth of her like sun-soaked glass under his hands. She holds onto him, and he tries not to feel too proud. She’s not his. 

“It was mostly the same, just different.” Ted keeps swaying, leading her in a slow box-step. “Everything that was good you can still have now and everything that was bad is either the same or just barely less awful. Like racism. That was worse, but it’s still bad now. Milkshakes have gotten better. So has medicine. You’re not- you’re too good to have liked it back then.” Charlotte’s smile is so loud, brilliant even when he can’t see it, Burning like a radiant star beside his ear.

“Then what makes me old-fashioned, Ted?” He smiles, compelled, and dips her. It’s deep, her curls almost touching the floor, but Ted is strong. He can hold her. He’d never let her down.

“The way you talk,” he teases her. “The music you listen to.” He looks into her eyes, so bright, so blue. He wants to kiss her, but he can’t, so he makes a joke instead. “Your taste in men…” Ted lifts her back up, letting the breath rush out of her so she doesn’t have to pretend to laugh.

“I suppose you have me there,” she demurs, but she’s still smiling. 

He kisses her.

It’s like kissing the night sky. She stretches beyond him, so much, so beautiful, and when she wraps her arms around him he feels as if he’s drowning in her. There’s nowhere else he’d rather be- Charlotte is everything. No part of him feels empty or alone or dead when she’s there. 

He is grateful. He shows her.

* * *

Lying in bed, feeling the bliss of Charlotte’s skin on his own, Ted reflects. He thinks, mind still sparking with pleasure, about how much better this would be if he didn’t have to leave. How much happier they’d be if he could say he loves her in front of other people. How much happier she’d be with him, a man who would love her back and treat her gently and never hurt her. They’re the idle thoughts of a discontented mind, but even still, Ted should know better. He should really know better. Sam is older than him, stronger than him- Ted’s about as thick as a dandelion compared to most vampires, really- and Sam, unlike Ted, is  _ married _ to Charlotte. 

But Ted, unlike Sam,  _ loves _ her. 

He loves her. 

He only knows because he can’t help but know, is only certain because his body refuses to let him forget. Her blood calls to him, violets and amber, and he can smell it under the perfume she was wearing, the soap, the shampoo, the clothes, the breeze from the window. He could follow her from miles away by the siren song of her blood. Around her he feels so much more like a monster, nothing more than hunger and desire bound by a silk thread. But he also feels so human. He feels like himself. He can just lie beside her, listen to the frantic beat of her heart, smell the comfort of violets, taste the alcohol on her lips. He hopes she feels the same, feels as free and safe and soft with him. 

She feels happy, pressed up to his chest all warmth and skin, and he almost doesn’t want to ask.

But he does.

“Charlotte,” he begins, and she shifts to look up at him, hair in her face, smiling. “You mind if I-?” She blinks, smile changing, but not disappearing. He wants to take it back. She looks guilty.

“Oh, of course, Ted. I should’ve offered-“

“No.” He wants to take it back so badly, but it would only make her feel even worse. It would turn a vague guilt to a deep shame, and he can’t bear that. He resigns himself to selfishness. “You’re fine,” he says, and wishes she would believe him. “You’re just fine, dollface.” He taps one knuckle to the tip of her nose, smiling to show he’s not angry, he’s not Sam, and her face eases back into cautious contentment. She wiggles up just a little closer, tilting her head for him. He can see the deep, unhealed pricks where Sam must’ve bitten her last night, and a part of him revolts.

He fucking hates this. It’s despicable. 

He kisses the skin there, broken, tries not to think about it. Charlotte makes a sound, soft, not quite a whimper. Ted holds her more closely, and she wraps her arms around him. He can hear her heartbeat calm, eased by the touch. It doesn’t ease his mind. He bares his fangs, lets them extend out uncomfortably far, and braces them just at the edge of Sam’s bite. Sam’s fangs are short, and there’s a part of him, still fifteen and an asshole, that finds that funny. The rest of him laments that he’s about to hurt Charlotte pretty fucking badly.

He bites down. 

His fangs really are too goddamn long. They sink in deep, hitting her artery and still moving in. Not enough to break through the other side, but enough to make clear that Sam is a pitiful excuse for a predator. Charlotte gasps, breath guttering out of her. Ted strokes her hair, tries to breathe even, breathe deep. He can’t give in. He can’t let himself enjoy this too much. He cannot drain her. Sam already takes too much, puts her on the edge, and Ted’s being selfish even asking but he just… he needs her. In a way that Sam doesn’t, Ted needs her.

She tastes like burnt sugar and chicory, like midnight air and whiskey. Her blood isn’t like anyone else’s, and Ted’s eaten more than his fair share of beauties. It’s better. It’s so much better. He wonders, as he savors a scant mouthful of her, if Sam can taste this, if Sam even knows, or if she tastes different because he loves her so. Ted’s never really been in love before. He’s never really been loved, either. He wouldn’t know who to ask. 

She tastes like the sunset, the blending of warm, languorous gold into deep royal purple. She tastes like smoke and copper, like a burnt match dipped in caramel. He can’t get enough. He’ll never get enough. He can feel the way she leans into his mouth, the soft breath that escapes like a sigh, the way her fingers dig into his back, his shoulder. She’s so weak. So drained. It breaks his heart. 

He swallows, physically stops himself from taking more. Ted licks the wound clean. Lets it seal shut with his saliva. Kisses it again. He tries to breathe normally. Tries not to lose his fucking mind on the faint taste of her lingering in his mouth, slicking off of his fangs as he retracts them. He presses his nose to her neck, listens to her pulse even out once more. He breathes in the scent of her, feels himself settle, feels his hunger fade. Finally fade.

It’s been weeks since he tasted her, weeks since he felt the howling, grinding thirst in his stomach truly fade. He hates how much he needs her, hates that he’s selfish enough to let himself need her instead of sucking it up and suffering like a better man would have. But Ted’s not a better man. He’s barely a good one. He’d never been in love before. He didn’t understand how painful it would be. He didn’t know how much he would want her, how much he would crave her touch, her presence, the precious, rare taste of her. How much he’d have to be around her to stay sane.

“Lottie,” he whispers, brushing his nose up against hers. Her eyes are shut, peaceful, and she tries not to smile. “You okay?”

“I’m alright, Ted.” Her eyes open lazily, and she reaches up to brush a lock of hair back behind his ear. “Don’t you worry about me.”

“I always worry,” he says, and she shakes her head, thinking it’s a joke. He kisses her, and she moves slowly, sleepily. It spikes worry again, and he wonders just how much Sam is drinking if she’s really that weak. She feels… perilously close to harm. He hates it. He hates Sam. He took a mouthful. That’s… nothing. That’s about as much as a bloody nose. And she’s fading from it.

“Stay with me, Teddy?” She blinks her eyes open, a display of willpower, and he nods, kissing her again. Gently, gently, just a brush of lips.

He pushes the anger and resentment aside in order to indulge his protectiveness, pulls Charlotte in close. She’s not really awake anymore. She’s sweet, fluid and obliging. Her sleep is gentle. Ted’s body doesn’t generate much warmth on its own, but with the sheets pulled over them, he can help trap hers in with her. He can do that, at least. She sleeps soundly, and he traces the deep, violet circles under her eyes, the blue tinge on her cold, bloodless lips. Sam is killing her slowly. Bit by bit. And Ted is helping him. It stirs disgust in him again, a furious self-loathing, and he resists the urge to leave for as long as he can. She asked him to stay. She wants him there.

He stays about an hour, as long as he can force himself, and when Charlotte is well and truly asleep Ted slips away. He tucks her in, kisses her forehead. Pulls a bottle of iron pills from her dresser drawer and leaves them condemningly on her bedside table. She doesn’t take care of herself, Ted thinks moodily. The bottle is almost full. She should be taking them far more often, the amount of blood she’s losing.

She shouldn’t be losing that much blood in the first place.

He slips out the window, because he doesn’t want to leave her alone with the door unlocked. He knows his scent will fade by the time Sam returns, but he leaves the window cracked to help it. He doesn’t want to give Sam any reason to suspect Charlotte of anything, doesn’t want to be responsible for any more of her pain.  


* * *

They see each other again, at work. Nothing unusual there. He tries not to make eye contact. She tries not to touch her neck, covered with a bandage that he knows hides his renewal of Sam’s bite. A part of him is proud, cocky at the reminder. The rest of him is sobered by the tremble of her hands and the tiredness in her eyes. He pulls her to the bathroom when they’re both on break, and she looks so much fucking worse. Sam must have fed from her again the night before, or before she came to work. It makes Ted furious. 

“You need to stop letting him feed from you,” Ted tells her quietly. “Me, too. You’re shaking, Charlotte. You’re going to let us drain you dry.”

“Well, I just- I want to help him, Ted, and you-“ she reaches up as if to touch his face, and Ted half-scoffs, catching her wrist. 

“Forget about me,” he hisses, hand clutching hers. Charlotte winces, and Ted remembers Sam. He relents, softening, grip on her hand loosening until it’s a very light hold. “I want you to live more than I want to drink from you. Anyone who cares about you should.”

“He’s just so hungry, Ted.” She looks lost, and he fights the urge to hold her. “He  _ loves _ me.” And Ted wants to break at that, wants to scream because  _ he _ loves her, and that means he would never treat her the way Sam does. “I- he needs me, Ted. Do you want him to starve?”

“I want you to  _ live _ ,” he repeats, releasing her hand. He feels so much frustration, so much anger. Sam is lying. He knows Sam is lying. Nobody who loves Charlotte could do this. Nobody who loves Charlotte could leave her bleeding, could leave her alone. Sam is a fucking liar. He has to be. Ted wants to scream.

“Last night has to be- it has to be the last time,” she tells him, and her voice is so small. It breaks his heart more than the rejection. “We can’t see each other again. I can’t-“

“Fine,” Ted spits. “But I’m not- I’m not stopping. You deserve better than this, Charlotte. You deserve to live.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.” Ted swallows, turns. Walks back to his desk, sighing. Trying to keep his breathing even and his self-control from snapping in two. He can feel his fangs pushing at his gums, can feel the jagged burn of fury in his chest. He wants to scream. He wants to run downtown to the station and do something stupid.

He wants to kill Sam. 

He wants to protect Charlotte, really. Wants to keep her safe, keep her alive. Wants her to wake every morning, soft and warm and unharmed, even if it’s not his arms she’s waking up in. He wants her to be healthy, wants her to be free. But she doesn’t want to live like that, so what the fuck can he do?

He goes back to work. Doesn’t look at her. Tries not to smell violets, focuses on his work. It’s unbearable. The paperwork is boring and he can hear her breathing and when she sighs, he can taste the sadness. He focuses on his work. Minutes creep by. A fly buzzes. Charlotte gets a phone call, from Sam, of course, and he can feel his restraint crack. He focuses on his work. Tries to tune out the softness of her voice- all love and joy and she never talks to Ted like that, like he’s the light of her fucking life, and it hurts- tries to focus on inventory sheets and signatures and who ordered 300 cases of watch hands. 

He can smell the love rolling off of her in waves, violets and cherries and amber and the singe of crème brûlée and he  _ wants _ .

Ted pushes a piece of wintergreen gum into his mouth with all the savagery of a starving man. He needs to block her out. He needs to care less. He needs to walk away from this, away from her. Self-preservation is key. It matters. It’s how he’s lived this long. Loving Charlotte is not self-preservation. It’s not smart. It’s not good. It’s a bad fucking idea. He looks back, across the room. She’s smiling.

He loves her.

Ted goes back to work furiously, seething with fruitless rage on her behalf and his own, burning apart with helplessness and love and frustration. He chews obnoxiously, trying to fill his mouth and nose and mind with something else. 

At least he can’t taste her anymore.  


* * *

Charlotte waits, alone, in the dark, under a half-broken streetlamp. Sam is coming. He has to come. He promised he’d pick her up. 

He promised.

It’s cold, is all. She shivers, pulling her arms in closer around herself. Charlotte knows, logically, that blood loss and low iron levels make her more susceptible to the cold, but even still- it’s unseasonably cold. She didn’t come to work that morning prepared for it. The wind blows, chilling, and Charlotte feels herself shake, drawing in even further. She feels uncertain, afraid. Everything is so dark, shadowed and hidden away from her. Nobody is out, no pedestrians, no cars. She’s never felt more alone. 

There’s a clink in the alley to her right, and something shifts around the corner, a step, a crack of broken glass. Charlotte turns sharply, stepping back, breath catching, heart pounding. She can’t move. It’s as if there’s a great pressure on her, as if the whole world is narrowing down on her, shrinking around her. Tightening its grasp. She’s alone. A shadow stretches out of the mouth of the alley. She’s alone, and she’s so weak, she’s so tired even now, and there’s something coming for her, and nobody will ever know what happened, Sam won’t know, he’ll come and find her gone and Ted will think she hated him and she’ll never be able to say otherwise, she’ll just be gone-

“Charlotte?” A voice calls from behind her, opposite the alley. It’s a voice she knows, familiar, very dear to her, and she sighs in relief. Ted shuffles up behind her, peering out to where she’s looking, glaring. Defensive. He sees her shake and comes closer, gently resting his hands on her shoulders. She sinks into his touch, comforted, and he pulls her towards him, rubbing gently at her cold, cold shoulders. “What’s wrong? I could hear your heart from…” He looks down at her, then out again to the alley. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” she says, swallowing her fear and smiling falsely. He can feel her tremble. He doesn’t let go. “It’s- it’s nothing, Ted. I’m just being real foolish, is all.”

“You waiting for Sam?” He asks, gently. Charlotte nods, just a little too vehemently. “You mind if I wait here with you?”

“Oh- I- I don’t want to keep you, Ted, I’d never dream-“

“Would you mind if I waited with you for my own peace of mind?” He asks again, reframing it, voice fond and unrelenting. Charlotte sniffles, still gazing at the mouth of the alley. 

“If you like,” she says. Ted nods. He still doesn’t let go, arms wrapped around her as if to keep her warm. She feels better. Frightened, still, and so nervous about what Sam might say if he sees them like this, but… better. 

She feels at home here, in Ted’s arms. She feels safe. Ted doesn’t ask anything else, doesn’t push her any more. Just holds her. She wants to be angry, the way she was earlier, when he prodded at every exposed nerve, every painful part of her. She wants him to be angry, because then she could walk away and wait alone and feel fine with it. But he’s not. He’s gentle. It reminds her of the sore, bruised part of her that wants this, that yearns for it. She can half-imagine that he’s Sam, but Sam is never so sweet, never lets things get this quiet. Even if she could, she’s not certain if she’d want to. 

Ted isn’t Sam. He’s nothing much like Sam, except for the vampire bit. Charlotte leans back into Ted, lets the wave of guilt and shame wash over her.  _ Harlot _ , she calls herself bitterly.  _ Absolutely shameless. Out where anyone could see you? In the open? _ But she feels good, with Ted pressed up against her back, solid and comforting. She feels calm. His fingers stroke absentmindedly over her skin.

“He’s coming,” Ted says quietly, stepping back, relinquishing his hold on her, and the world is so cold without him there. The car comes down the street and passes them. It’s not Sam’s. Ted’s eyes narrow. “When was he supposed to be here, Charlotte?”

“Six-thirty,” she shivers. Ted checks his watch. 

It’s nine pm.

“Jesus fuck, Charlotte.” She won’t look him in the eye. “Let me take you home.”

“No,” she says without thinking. She looks up at him, so sad. So hopeful. “He said- he said he’d come.”

“Lottie,” Ted pleads, and she can’t help but soften at the nickname. He bends down, holding her chilled hands between his, trying futilely to warm them. “Lottie, c’mon. You’re gonna freeze to death out here.”

“What if he comes to get me and I’m gone?” Charlotte steps closer, and they’re so close. There’s only a few inches between their faces. “What if- What if he-“

“Keeps his promise this time?” It hurts to hear, but Ted isn’t being unkind. His face is soft, sympathy and unhappiness. “You can call him from the car. C’mon Lottie, please. Let me take you home.” Charlotte thinks of the shadow at the end of the alley, the cold wind, the ominous flickering of the streetlight. The softness of Ted’s touch on her shoulders. The way Sam had agreed to pick her up, like he wasn’t really listening.

She nods. 

Ted’s car is warm. For her benefit rather than his, but Charlotte isn’t about to be polite about it. It’s a welcome kindness. She huddles, hands held up to her chest, praying for warmth at the altar of Ted’s a/c unit. He glances aside at her from time to time, almost measuring, almost nervous. The radio is on, playing some song that could be from the 90s, something melancholy and ethereal. It’s not Ted’s style. It’s not hers, either. Neither of them reaches for the radio.

He drives in silence. She rides in silence. 

There’s a red light. The light that radiates form it arcs out in the cold like a starburst, beautiful, burning. It seems to last forever. Charlotte sees the rain before she hears it, splattering and scattering, pounding into the glass like ball bearings on a drum. Ted sighs.

“Thank you,” she says, little more than a murmur. Ted nods.

“Yeah,” he says. The light doesn’t change. She looks up at him, so much taller from where she is, slumped down in the passenger seat. He looks back at her, eyes soft, face sad.

“Are you still angry with me?” She whispers. Ted frowns.

“I’m angry with him. I’m worried about you.”

“I’m sorry.” Ted shakes his head. 

“Forget it,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss her. His hand is light, frightened to touch where it cups her jaw. Her lips are still cold. They’re haloed in light, dappled with the shadows of raindrops. Her heart rebels. The light turns green, burning through her closed eyelids, and when Ted pulls away he’s beautiful. All emerald and shadow, Gatsby and arsenic.

They don’t speak again until they reach the front steps of her house. The light is on, Sam’s car in the driveway. Charlotte’s shoulders sink. Every ounce of emotion comes up as desolation, transfigured by the revelation that he hadn’t been held up. He hadn’t been at work.

Sam had just forgotten her.

Ted reaches across to her in silence, wiping a tear from her cheek. She looks up at him, hollow and cold once more. Her skin thrills with life where he touches it, fingertips raising a blush where they skate over her cheekbone.

“See you tomorrow,” he says softly.

Charlotte kisses him. It’s quick, deep, and then she pulls away again, blinking away more tears.

“Goodnight, Ted,” she replies, forcing a smile. He watches her walk across the street, watches her unlock the door. Hears her lock it behind her. Listens to Sam grumble, then complain, then yell. Listens to Charlotte argue, crumble, cave. 

He can smell when Sam breaks skin, can taste the mist of Charlotte’s blood on the air, can almost hear Sam swallowing greedily, gluttonous with power. He has to leave then, furious and hungry and helpless.

He drives home white-knuckled. He dreams of violets.


	2. Heart’s A Mess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Would you mind coming home with me tonight?” She asks, and he brushes lingering tears from her red-rimmed eyes. 
> 
> “Of course.” He tries to make it sound unpracticed, nonchalant. He tries to make it sound like he’s not relieved.   
> \--------  
> Ted and Charlotte make progress… sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Following Nick Lang’s generous twitter offerings, the angst level of this chapter just ramped the fuck up. It’s that sweet, sweet delicious “we know they love each other, but they’re so mutually self-destructive that they don’t” angst.
> 
> Also! Each chapter title will be a different song, and eventually I’ll probably post a playlist bc they’re all very on-theme for the chapters they correspond to lol

It’s been a few weeks now, since Ted took her home and left her on her doorstep. She came back that Monday, eyes wet and red, and said in a shaky voice that Sam was taking some time away. Paul offered to get her some coffee, and Bill spent the time between commiserating about how difficult marriage was, and Ted stayed away, trying not to sink to his knees and thank whatever it was out there that governed Sam’s choices. She has time, now. She doesn’t have to bleed for anyone.

He follows her out back, ostensibly to smoke, but she stops in the doorway as he walks past, and stands, motionless, loose and tired. He turns, the faint prickling sense of a living person behind him. The sun glances off of her face, bright and bleaching, draining her of color. She’s so pale, all but bloodless. Ted steps back to wrap an arm around her waist and pull her off to the side. 

“What happened to you?” He asks under his breath, pushing a curl behind her ear. She gazes blankly into the distance, and Ted swallows a cold jut of fear. “Lottie, look at me, what happened?” She blinks, eyes flicking towards him, and he settles a little.

“I said no,” she tells him, voice thin and soft. “He wanted- he wanted more, and I said no, and he- he left.” Ted can feel the tremor of sorrow, the faint rainwater sadness in her voice.

“Good,” Ted says sharply, before he can collect himself. “I’m sorry, Charlotte. I mean- I’m sorry.” He can smell the tears before they fill her eyes, and he pulls her into his chest. “Hey, it’s alright.” She sobs, fingers digging into his shirt. He can smell her perfume, the faint whiff of tar and smoke, the flush of coffee. All of that, the surface and the skin and the blood rushing in her veins, and Ted feels faint relief, that she still has any, that she’s standing here, that neither of them has killed her yet. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“What if he doesn’t come back?”

“Then he’s not worth you,” Ted says, and it’s so honest. It’s more truth than he’s ever spoken about Sam before. Charlotte sobs.

“But then what?” She sniffles, looking at her wedding ring. “What am I without him?” She shakes her head, and Ted doesn’t know what to say. “I’m supposed to- to make things work. I’m supposed to keep him happy, that’s what a wife does, isn't it?” Ted thinks about his own parents.

“No,” he scoffs, on instinct. Shakes his head. Rethinks. “Charlotte, you can’t blame yourself for every stupid thing your husband does. It’s not on you to make everything okay. He has to put some work in, too.”

“He works so hard-“

“Not what I meant.” Ted holds her close, pulls her into his chest, and it’s a relief, to have her in his arms. She’s shaking, still, but she’s crying into his chest instead of her hands, and her hands are curled into his back instead of themselves, and he feels content, predator-deep in his chest, content that she’s safe with him and not out of his reach, out of his sight. It’s unsettling, how much the monster inside of him uncurls and lazily hums it’s joy at the feeling of her shaking shoulders. How happily the warmth rises in his heart at the knowledge that he’s safe for her, he’s the refuge she’s come to, he’s the one she’s leaning on. It makes his head ache. He doesn’t want her to be upset. He doesn’t want her to cry. Ever. 

Eventually her tears run out, and Ted’s hands smooth up and down her back with a gentle slowness. “Would you- could I-“ she sniffles. “Ted?”

“Mmhm?”

“Would you mind coming home with me tonight?” She asks, and he brushes lingering tears from her red-rimmed eyes. 

“Of course.” He tries to make it sound unpracticed, nonchalant. He tries to make it sound like he’s not relieved. 

He goes home with her every night for the next two weeks.

Charlotte’s hands still shake. She’s getting better, little by little, getting stronger now that Sam isn’t drinking from her every night. The scars on her neck are beginning to heal, and Ted refuses to make any new ones. She needs time. She needs to be around someone, to have those boundaries reinforced more often. To be able to say no and get no argument. 

She offers, from time to time, and there’s a part of Ted, snarling and hungry, that wants. But he remembers how cold she was, how tired, how she couldn’t even hold a coffee pot without her wrists giving out. He’s not Sam. He’s not reckless enough to take everything that’s offered to him. And Ted is already having a great time, really. Sam hasn’t been coming home as much since Charlotte said no. The specter of him is beginning to lessen, and Charlotte lets Ted stay longer, lets him linger. Sam is apparently staying with a friend. Ted doubts the friend part, but he’s not complaining about the chance to stay with Charlotte, to sleep next to her and wake up to her tangled curls and sleepy eyes.

Ted is in fucking heaven. 

It’s not always sex. Most of the time it isn’t. When it is, it’s softer, slower. Ted savors the fact that he can stay, sleeps beside her with his hands warmed by her skin and his body curled around hers. He feels human, almost. Feels whole. Feels a curious longing when he wakes to find her still there. He wants this. He’s  _ wanted _ this. Now that he has it, he wants it more. He doesn’t want it to ever end, even though there’s a terrible creeping certainty that at some point, at  _ some point _ , it will.

Sometimes he fools himself into thinking this can last, that Charlotte will wise up and recognize what she could have if she just let go of Sam. Sometimes he lies to himself so thoroughly he forgets Sam exists- and those are good nights, when he can pretend he’s not doing all kinds of wrong just by being there. When he can pretend he doesn’t smell the California lilac under her skin, the midnight ozone caught in her hair. When he can pretend that this is as close as he’ll ever come to love again. He’s allowed to hold her, like this, allowed to sleep beside her and wake to the warmth of her body, to hear the soft flutter of her heart in her chest. It feels intimate, feels like a gift he doesn’t deserve.

He kisses her so often it chaps her lips. She tastes like caramel now, in more than her blood, burnt sugar on her lips to keep his kiss at bay. It doesn’t work, of course, and she giggles a little every time he kisses her, remembers the chapstick, and huffs out a “shit,” under his breath and fumbles for her chapstick in her pocket. She could grab it herself, but it’s more fun to make her laugh. Ted’s never seen her smile so much, even if each smile is just a little bit sad. 

It’s four weeks in, and he’s just finished showing his proper appreciation for her hospitality, still kissing a long line up her throat, when she breaks his heart again.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, and he means it. God, does he mean it. She shakes her head, smiles that embarrassed smile that means she doesn’t believe him. “Aw, c’mon dollface,” he pleads, gently, teasingly. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“I know,” she whispers, sad eyes wrinkling with an honest smile. “But that doesn’t mean you’re right.”

“What’s wrong?” He asks, kissing her cheek, holding her closer. She leans into him, face pressed into his chest, legs twined with his like she never wants to leave.

“Sometimes the world just… closes in on me,” she says softly, and then she’s looking up at him, looking him in the eye, and he doesn’t know what to do. “And I feel so alone and so small and I can’t breathe- and I just….” she pauses, swallowing. “I don’t feel like that with you. And it scares me.”

“You’re not alone,” Ted says softly, taking her face between his hands. “And you’re not small.” He kisses her forehead, her cheek, the curve of her jaw. 

“Ted…” She breathes, voice thin with emotion too close to sadness for his comfort.

“You’re not nothing.” Charlotte doesn’t breathe, for a moment. Ted doesn’t know how much that sentence means. He can’t. But it breaks her clean in two, and she presses closer to him, breathing in his skin, and Ted’s cool arms wrap around her like armor. He loves her. He feels it so intensely, so painfully, like a spear inching through his heart. He loves her, and she would never believe him if he told her. 

* * *

Ted can’t say he’s ever met Carol Davidson, but he knows her by reputation. She’s ice-cold, the stories say, unforgiving and decisive. Meeting her husband for the first time was, well. Confusing. Because Mr. Davidson is none of those things. He’s eccentric, almost too forgiving, easygoing. Human. Very human.

The weirdest part is that Carol is friendly. She’s refined and distant, yes, but she laughs at Bill’s jokes and chats affectionately with Charlotte. She talks to Paul about the Cranberries and wraps an arm fondly around Melissa’s shoulders like a proud mother. Ted didn’t really think they could be friendly. No vampire he’d ever met was. (Ted considers himself personable at best.) 

Well. Maybe Bill was. Ted watches him laugh and socialize, almost perfectly human save for those pesky ever-present fangs. He feels a stir of jealousy. He dismisses it, pouring himself another glass of punch. Bill wasn’t any less of a fucking monster than Ted. He wasn’t any less blown to pieces by becoming a vampire. He just adjusted better.

“Hey, what’s even in this?” Paul asks him, waiting his turn. “It’s got some interesting…. aftertastes.”

“Orange juice, Squirt, blood orange slices, grapefruit juice, lemonade, club soda, and a hint of vodka.” Mr Davidson cranes his head over Paul’s shoulder like a giant man-shaped bird, grinning at them both. Ted sniffs. More than a hint of vodka. Way more. 

“You’re lucky I’m not human anymore,” Ted says blandly. “This would nuke my antidepressants.”

“It would what?” Paul asks, going pale. “Is it going to make me sick?” Ted squints at him, immediately snatching the cup from his hand.

“Do you take antidepressants?” Paul nods, beginning to sweat. “Yeah, you might be slightly fucked today.” Paul droops, noticeably. Between the alcohol and the citrus, Ted is fairly certain he’s going to have a very uncomfortably emotional night. He pats Paul’s shoulder. “Go get some coffee. See the uh- what’s her name, the cute barista? The latte hotté?”

“I don’t know her name, Ted.”

“Get some coffee and her name, then.” Ted peers at Paul, focuses on his heartbeat- rapid, mouselike, so  _ afraid _ \- and nods. “Maybe no coffee. Although, chances are good you’re going to pass the fuck out, so it’s up to you. Maybe just Uber home and get into the recovery position, huh? Watch some-“ he checks the time. “I don’t know. Jeopardy? Wheel of Fortune? What’s on tv these days?”

“Okay,” Paul says numbly. “Okay. Okay, okay. Okay. Okay okay okay.”

Ted watches him go, makes sure he gets into the car that picks him up. He passes the other offices on his way in, and Bill’s voice echoes, unusual in its volume, through the hall.

“I’m not saying she’s a monster, Alice, I’m just saying she’s dangerous! Yes, of course I would know! This is  _ exactly _ why I didn’t want you getting involved with her- Alice, that’s not fair- Grace Chastity is a nice  _ human _ girl, and she is- well, at least she’s  **nice to me in church** !” Ted raises his eyebrows reflexively and keeps walking. It’s none of his business. It’s funny, but it’s none of his business. As he opens the door back into the party, Bill comes up behind him. Ted holds the door, bare minimum of attention paid to it, and then makes the point to stop and ask Carol to perhaps put a sign in front of the punch.

“Did you, uh-“ Bill clears his throat and nods at the door. Not embarrassed, exactly, but concerned.

“Yeah, I heard. Girl troubles?” Ted asks, grinning wryly. Bill shakes his head, exasperation filling him up to his eyes. 

“It’s that Deb,” and he says it the same way he always does, That Deb, as if there was another Not-That Deb running around Hatchetfield with his daughter. “Alice stayed over at her house last weekend and she says it’s an ‘invasion of privacy’ not to let her do it again. What does that even mean?” Bill asks, spreading his hands, lost. “Whose privacy am I invading if I ask her not to sleep over at Deb’s? I didn’t even ask her any questions!” Ted, who is neither father nor teenage girl, shrugs. 

“Maybe she heard the phrase somewhere and is just using it all over.”

“I hope so. If she tells her mother I’m invading her privacy, I’m going to be the recipient of a very angry phone call full of unfounded accusations.”

Ted laughs. He can’t help it. Bill’s just… nice. His problems are so banal, so normal, so refreshingly unimportant. They’re none of Ted’s business. “Do you want to have this conversation indoors?” He asks, tilting his head to the rest of them. Paul is gone, of course, and Melissa must have gone home between then and now, but Carol and Mr. Davidson are still chatting happily by the punch. Charlotte is still in mild conversation with a man Ted thinks he recognizes- Walker? William? Walter? He doesn’t care for him, but what’s he going to do, monitor Charlotte’s acquaintances? Of course not.

Bill’s eyes flick around, and then he shrugs. Ted snags a glass of punch, and Bill plucks a soda from another table. They sit, settling, at one of the corner tables, and Ted cracks his wrist. “Sorry,” he says unapologetically, catching Bill’s moue of distaste. He sighs, sips the apocalyptic drink, and grimaces. “This shit tastes like rotting citrus smells,” he complains, before looking back to Bill. “So what’s the deal with that anyway? I thought you got partial custody or something?”

“At first. Alice’s mother doesn’t want me seeing her as much. She thinks Alice needs to focus more on school, but then she lets her sleep over at her girlfriend’s house, so I don’t know that she’s following her own advice!” Bill’s rambling ends on a sad, sour frown. “I only get to see her once or twice a year, now. And every time she’s coming to see Deb instead of me.”

“Shit, Bill, I’m sorry.” And he is, vaguely. He doesn’t know how to relate to it, but he knows it’s harsh. He sips the punch again, grimaces again.

“It doesn’t help that her mother practically dictated the whole divorce by herself,” Bill mopes, sipping his soda. “‘Irreconcilable differences’, give me a break.”

“I thought you two split up because of the whole hunger problem?” Ted knows there’s a proper name for it, knows that it deserves more dignity than he’s giving it. The blood call isn’t for public consumption, though. Saying it just like that, it’s not something they do. Not in front of the normal people, at least. It’s… it’s private. Ted tries not to think of Charlotte, tries not to think of the difference between the taste of her blood before and after, the change. He tries to seem unaffected. “Didn’t you tell her about it before you got married?” Bill makes a doubtful noise and a face.

“I wasn’t sure about all of that. I mean of course I loved Fiona, but I didn’t believe that it made things different.” Bill takes a sip of his coke and Ted swirls a straw through his glass, disrupting the bubbles. “But you know how it is. One day you’re in love, and then you’re  _ in love _ . It was fine, though. We got by. We were happy! We were so happy. And then when Alice came we had everything anyone could ask for! She was everything to me.” Bill pauses, hands held close to his heart, eyes soft and sad. 

Ted thinks of May seventeenth, and Bill leaving work early, Bill deep to his fangs in Dana Lowell’s wrist, chewing iron pills like tic tacs. “She still is, and I… they say the parental instinct takes over for awhile, keeps the beast at bay, and it did. For a long time, we were alright, but after, I- I’ve never felt more like a monster. She was about fourteen when I first felt it again, and it wouldn’t go away, and I just-“ Bill is staring, face so full of despair that Ted feels almost compelled to comfort him. He looks lost, looks guilty. 

“I could only deal with it for a few more years before I had to leave. I was so proud of her.” He pauses, face crumbling. “I was so hungry. Eventually Fiona divorced me for their own safety, and I- I don’t get to see either of them nearly as often as I’d like, but I know… I know it’s for the best.” He sounds on the verge of tears, and Ted wants to comfort him, wants to help, but there’s a tight ball of fear in his chest. He doesn’t know how to move around it, how to let it go. Is this what they’re doomed to? All of them? 

“Fuck, Bill. I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s autopilot, but it’s genuine, and Bill nods gratefully, glad to stop talking. “If it makes you feel any better, she seems to really love you. Wanting to come over and all.”

“Yeah,” Bill nods, forgoing his straw and downing half of his remaining soda. “She’s such a good girl, Ted. She’s so smart, you know, sharp as a tack! But that Deb-“

“Kids date all kinds of people who’re bad for them, Bill.” Ted means to be comforting, but he’s never sure when he’s missed the mark. “I know I did. I know I’ve  _ been _ the person who’s bad for them. It’s what teenagers do. She’ll be alright.”

“I know,” Bill mopes, pushing ice cubes around in his empty glass. “I just… what if Deb does love her? What then? I just let some pint-sized bloodsucker chew on my baby girl?”

“Bill, you’re a vampire,” Ted says flatly. “You throw her off a building and give her a solid shovel talk and then you go feed from a travel agent. That’s what you do.”

Bill makes a morose groaning noise from where his hands are pressed to his face.

“Or not. Whatever. Talk to her like a normal person.” Ted takes a swig from his drink, and it tastes so much like carbonation he can’t stand it. “Sooner or later you will have to pick. Either you’re happy with her for Alice or you hate her for you. And then you have to stick with it for a long time.”

“Neither of those options sound appealing,” Bill murmurs sadly into his hands.

“Life isn’t.” Ted finishes his drink, grimaces, and throws down two bucks for a tip. “I gotta go. Call me if you need anything. Or don’t. Preferably don’t.” Bill waves absently.

Ted walks home. 

He doesn’t want to linger on these thoughts, doesn’t want to think about Charlotte and her husband and her shaking hands, doesn’t want to think about Bill and his wife and his daughter, and how all love is doomed to violence for him. He doesn’t want to think about the way his parents used to talk to him, the way they made vulnerability feel like terror, kindness feel like condescension. He doesn’t want to think about how the person he was before all this would probably still have fucked over everyone he ever loved. 

He doesn’t want to think about the likelihood of Charlotte bleeding out on the floor, or of Alice being found drained in her girlfriend’s place, or of Paul being found in an alley, throat torn out and eyes wide with fear-

He stops breathing. He can’t hyperventilate if he doesn’t breathe. He keeps walking, slow and straining for calm. He thinks of the feeling he first had when he woke up, fangs cutting into his mouth and someone else’s pulse loud in his ear. He thinks of how it felt to drink and drink and drink and never stop. He thinks of how it felt to look up and see his brother, face worn with worry, telling him not to kill the person he was holding down.

Ted hyperventilates, sobs, feels thin tracks of red cut down his face. He wipes the tears away. He’s fine. He’s fine.

He goes to Charlotte’s house, and the warm light streaming from the windows stains the darkness gold. The curtains aren’t drawn, but the blinds are closed, so he hopes against hope that Sam hasn’t come home yet. He sniffs tentatively, but can smell only Charlotte on the air. It comforts him, soothes down the parts of him that hunger for her, smoothes out the ruffles in his feathers. He smells chai tea- not his brand, but hers- and the faint wafting of burnt sugar. He knocks, tentative.

“Hello?” Charlotte asks, as she comes to the door. “Sam?” She sounds both nervous and hopeful, and it crushes him a little. The predator rises back up, bitter, and Ted shoves it back as she peers through the peephole.

“Just me, dollface,” he says nonchalantly. She sighs, a little relieved and a little disappointed, and unlocks the door, opening it just a crack. Ted hears another set of footsteps in the house. 

“Charlotte? Who is it?” It’s Walter. Wallace. Whatever the fuck his name is. Charlotte looks at Ted, eyes wide with panic, and Ted understands.

“Just me,” Ted says, on autopilot, because he understands. He knows. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out Charlotte’s chapstick. “You left this at the party, is all. Figured you’d want it back.”

“You could’ve just given it to her tomorrow,” William (Willis?) says, and Ted is inches from hissing at him, teeth bared and hunger raging, but Charlotte rolls her eyes. 

“Give us a moment, Walker?” She asks, sweetly, though her tone brooks no argument. Walker walks away. Ted’s focus shifts back to her, all of his emotions simmered back down to the baseline anxiety he runs on. 

“Walker, huh?” Ted scoffs. He shoves his hands back into his pockets, feeling colder than he’s felt in years. “Guess I’m not the only one.”

“Ted, I-“ Something in her face hurts to look at, like concern, or sympathy. Not pity, not anger, not disinterest- it’s worry for him. On his behalf. “I was going to ask you,” she admits softly, and his heart convulses. “But you- I take too much of your time already, and you were talking to Bill-“ she breaks off, voice soft and shaking. Ted reaches up to brush one knuckle down her cheek. She leans into his touch, eyes all creased up with worry. She cares. She cares about  _ him _ . She wanted  _ him _ to come home with her. Wilton is just a placeholder.

It’s enough.

“It’s okay,” he says, voice rough, and even though it isn’t, he’s not exactly lying. Just pretending a little. “I don’t-“ his voice cracks, and he swallows his regret. “I don’t mind.”

“Ted,” she starts, reaching out to cup his cheek in one hand. “Ted, please-“

“It’s  _ okay _ ,” he repeats, smiling shakily, and he means it just a little more this time. “Have a nice night.” He reaches up to clasp her hand in his, press it closer. He turns his face to kiss her palm, and she makes a soft noise like the beginning of denial. He lets go.

He walks home in the dark, the phantom touch of her hand burning his face. He feels worse and better all at once. He’s not the only one, and it stings, it  _ stings _ , because even if he was only ever going to be a no-strings affair for her, he thought he knew what that meant. But she cares. She cares about him, she wanted  _ him _ to be the one, she wanted him to be okay-

He sleeps fitfully.

* * *

He almost knows it’s coming. He knows something is, something important, but he doesn’t know what. Charlotte beckons him over into the break room while she’s making coffee. He slips in while Bill and Paul argue over a printer, and he looks back to see that nobody’s looking. “Hey, sweetheart,” he says, and kisses her on the cheek. 

“Hi Ted,” she laughs, grinning shyly. “I, uh,” the smile dies a little, and his heart sinks. “I have something to tell you. And you’re not gonna like it at all, Ted.”

“Sounds promising,” he jokes weakly. He sees it coming now.

“Sam and I- we’re going to start counseling,” she says, and Ted wants to be happy for her. He does. He wishes he could be a good enough man to say how great that is, to hug her like a friend would, to smile and nod and laugh about how soon they won’t see much of each other because she’ll be so happy at home. But Ted’s not that person. He feels a sick, low weight in his stomach, foreboding and sad.

“Congratulations,” he says hoarsely. “So we’re fine, then? We’re done?” Charlotte blinks, stung. 

“I- yes. I suppose so.” She swallows, looking at Ted as if uncertain. As if she thinks she’s done something wrong. She doesn’t find whatever she’s looking for in his face, and her eyes shutter. She doubles down. “We’re done. We shouldn’t see each other.” He keeps breathing, out of habit, but he suddenly goes very still, vampire still, and Charlotte looks sad. “He loves me,” she says, helplessly, brokenly. Ted feels his jaw clench so hard it cracks, heals itself, aches.

“Alright.” He nods, sharply, walks out. She calls after him, but he isn’t listening. His head is so full of static it burns, rushes like waves on the beach. He feels cavernous, empty with the heartbreak he’s carrying. He sits at his desk and stares off into the distance. 

Ted wishes he was surprised, but really he’s been expecting this. He never thought Charlotte would stay away from Sam for this long, let alone that Sam would leave her alone for this long. Sam calls her, he can hear. He can hear her laugh, clear and joyful, through the wall. It stings. It’s been what, six weeks? It’s longer than Sam has ever let Charlotte go without feeding from her- or at least longer than Ted’s seen in the past four years he’s been paying attention. The date range turns over in his head. Ted’s heart skips an unnecessary beat. No. Not six. He looks at the calendar on the office wall. Eight. Eight weeks.

Of course.

Sam didn’t want Charlotte back in his life. He wanted the pint of blood she just recovered. Ted frowns, verging on glaring, at the couple standing just outside of the door. Fucking Sam. Fucking Charlotte, for believing him. She’s just about bleeding joy, all love and devotion and relief. Amber and night air, California lilac and clover. Ted snaps a pencil clean in half in his hand. He gets a new one, swallows his fury.

He goes back to work, shoving a piece of wintergreen gum into his mouth. At least he had eight weeks. At least Charlotte had those eight weeks to recover. He swears profusely and creatively inside of his mind. Ted rattles around an imaginary Sam, pushes him out the glass window at the end of the hallway, stabs him through the leg with a letter opener, strangles him with a charging cable, sinks his fangs deep into his throat and takes back everything Charlotte has given him. Ted breathes in mint and anger, breathes out cool hatred. 

He stops by the blood bank on the way home. The girl at the desk knows him, smiles. He smiles back, because it’s reflex and she’s cute, and he’s on all kinds of edge. He sinks his fangs into the soft, strawberries-and-cream scented wrist of a man in suspenders. He reminds Ted of his brother, and it’s a mix of fondness and despair and the roiling rage at San that drives Ted to drink more deeply than usual. The man tastes like copper, like plums and something lactic, whipped cream or sweet condensed milk. Mostly blood, though. Not as much depth as Charlotte, not as much intensity, and Ted’s heart grows heavy at the realization that nothing will ever measure up. He’s a fucking mess. He can’t decide how to feel, can’t settle on his anger or his sadness or his apathy or his empty, heartrending, one-sided love affair with Charlotte. Because fuck. Fuck. How is he supposed to handle this? How is he supposed to move on?

Because one day she’ll leave him- his heart cracks. He adjusts. She  _ has _ left him, and he’ll have to move on.

Sam continues stopping by the office for weeks, and it’s intolerable. To see him pretend, to see him dote emptily on Charlotte with the scent of fresh blood on him- the blood of other people, other women, a barista Ted recognizes, a fellow officer Ted could swear he met once- to see him play at the love Ted feels is fucking ridiculous. Worse is the genuine, blooming love and joy that spills from Charlotte’s very soul at it. Ted starves, slowly, feels the low burn or denied hunger rise in him as the days pass. 

He has an arrangement at the blood bank- one pint, every two weeks, with exceptions made for walk-in appointments should he find himself expending energy. He visits every week now. It’s not enough. Nothing works. Every drink is so empty, every person so distant and unemotional. There’s no bond there. This is only sustenance, purely appetite. He wonders how the hell Bill deals with it, then remembers, belatedly, that he doesn’t. Ted begins a thing with a girl from the office downstairs, just for the faintest touch of affection. It’s not enough. It’s not Charlotte. 

But it’s something.

The taste of wintergreen gum begins to be correlated in Ted’s mind with loss, desperation, anger. Defeat.  _ Sam _ .

He switches to peppermint.

* * *

Sam’s arms are cool around her, firm and grasping, and she wants to feel at home there. She wants to feel safe. But the safety he can give her feels all wrong. She drifts a little, lets her thoughts wander to Ted, and the gentle way he always rubs his hands over her shoulders before he holds her, the way he pulls her to his chest and no further, never traps her, never clutches at her like she’s about to run away. She lets herself imagine that he’s holding her now, relaxes into Sam’s harsher hold. Her husband is far from gentle.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Charlotte blinks, reality sinking back in.

“Just how nice it is to have you back,” she tells him, and she can’t help but smile because it  _ is _ nice to have him back. Her Sam, copper-penny hair and that rakish smile, all brightness and life, his whole being like brass and the flame of the sun. So alive.  _ So _ alive.

“Well, you know,” he purrs, running a knuckle up the side of her throat. “I love you too much to stay away, baby.” She does know. It’s what keeps her there, rooted to the spot. It’s what keeps her ring on her finger when she’s in bed with another man, what keeps her in Hatchetfield when all her legs want to do is run. He loves her. He loves her. Nobody else ever will.

“I love you, too, Sam.” She wraps her arms around his neck, feels the kiss on her throat become a bite. It feels like coming home.

Sam’s fangs are always a struggle, poor thing, and Charlotte tilts her head just a little further back, so he can have the extra space to work with. They don’t go in easy. He pulls away, bites again, grinds his teeth into her flesh. It hurts her, it hurts Charlotte so much more than she’s used to now, and she feels a pang of longing for Ted and his sweet, quick hunger. It makes her ashamed, to not love her husband down to this painful part of himself, this one small flaw that he can’t help, but it hurts. And Ted… doesn’t. He never drags things out like this, never hurts her more than he must. She thinks of him, closes her eyes, dreams that it’s his cool hands on her waist, his mouth at her pulse. She imagines how he’d hold her, not harsh and haphazard like Sam, but easy. Keeping her steady, supporting and assisting. One hand at the nape of her neck, holding up her dizzy, spinning head, the other resting at her waist, careful. She pushes the thoughts away, kisses Sam’s temple, inhales the rosemary-iron of his shampoo, thinks of Ted, Ted, Ted-

It’s frustrating. It’s all very frustrating. She doesn’t  _ want _ to be thinking of Ted. It’s Sam’s teeth in her flesh, Sam’s hands hiking up her skirt, Sam’s grasp pinning her to him. It’s Sam she should be thinking of. Sam, who’s so alive, who used to take her out dancing until he stopped, who used to be so sweet until he got busy, who says he loves her. Sam, her husband, the other half of her life, the other half of her beating heart. All his flaws and foibles, all his virtues and violence. Til death do they part. It’s like being a child again, unsafe in the hands of somebody who was supposed to love her, or knee-deep in wet sand, blood on her face, seawater rushing in to fill the empty places in her heart. She feels it now, something hot and rushing through her, the very absence of blood revealing its presence, and she sighs, lets her breath void her too until she’s empty. Empty and weak and cold. 

She feels her pulse in her throat, pounding up against his teeth, and breathes slowly, head spinning. It’s too fast. She can tell it’s too fast. He’s moving too fast, drinking too much, and she pushes a hand gently against his chest. “Slow down, baby,” she manages. He doesn’t listen. She smells tar, chai spice, phantom scents that prickle at her guilt, that linger in her throat with her shame. 

Ted smells like smoke and tea, whiskey and sandalwood. She dreams of it sometimes, that she’s in bed with him, and everything is the same except for the person beside her. She always wakes up misaligned, reality just out of reach, just a little to the left of her. She reaches for Ted and finds Sam, looks left when she should look right, turns where she should go straight. The rush of blood leaving her head slows, and when she breathes in again, Ted’s ghost is gone. Sam smells like iron and bleach and detergent. Police station scents. Antiseptic, uncomfortable, unwelcoming, familiar, he crowds her back into her own mind. She’s so grateful. She loves him so much. Even in her head she’s uncertain, but Sam is always confident. He never falters, never wavers. Hunts her down and pins her to the spot so she can’t get away. It always thrills her to feel like this, to feel fear pricking up in her throat and excitement almost spilling from her veins. It makes her feel like she has something to lose.

She doesn’t want to be thinking of Ted. She doesn’t want to imagine Ted’s hands, strong and gentle, Ted’s arms, the prick of his mustache on her skin, familiar even though it shouldn’t be, the feeling of his hair between her fingers, the taste of iron and smoke lingering on his lips when he kisses her. She doesn’t want to want him, wants to be satisfied with what she has, wants to be good and decent and honest, wants to be what she  _ should _ be. It’s never been like this with the others. Every other affair she's ever had, every other man, they were so easy to let go of, to move on from, to come home to Sam and forget. She tries to drown herself in Sam, black licorice lightning up her veins, sharp, painful pressure in her neck. She lets herself fall into him, lets his sparkling, bright lies make a home there. She doesn’t think of Ted. She doesn’t think of his gentle hands or the quicksilver draw of her blood in his mouth. She doesn’t think of how sweet he is, how he listens to her, how he talks like he’s never been happier to talk when he’s with her. She doesn’t think of how languorous she feels in his bed, how warm and soft and loved. 

She doesn’t want to like Ted. She doesn’t want to love him. She doesn’t. She can’t. She loves  _ Sam _ . She holds him closer, whispers his name, tangles a hand in his penny-bright hair as her blood drips down her neck. (Wasteful, a part of her scoffs. Messy.) If he’s one of many, he can’t mean anything. None of them mean anything next to Sam, of course, but if Ted were the only one… he might matter. He can’t, she tells herself, reassures herself. He can’t mean anything because he’s not the only one. She has Doctor Roth. She has Mr. Whitman. She has Ted. Sam’s tongue is all kinds of wrong as it lathes against her skin, but she forgives it before she’s even fully disgusted. She loves him.

She didn’t love George. She didn’t love Thomas. She doesn’t love Walker or Isaac. She didn’t love Richard, either. She  _ doesn’t _ love Ted.

She loves her husband. Her fingers dig deep into his scalp, into the thick roughness of his uniform. She opens her mouth to taste her blood on the air. She loves her husband. She feels a cold, fluid chill spiral down into the core of her chest, like a liquid screw that set to piercing her heart. She doesn’t love Ted.

She sleeps fitfully, dreams a dream like a nightmare where Sam disappears and she remarries. Not Ted, someone else, but Ted is there, he’s still there, just out of reach, and it hurts her but it’s familiar enough and safe enough that she likes it. If she has no right to him she doesn’t have to reach for more. If she doesn’t love him she doesn’t have to change anything. She feels cold, and empty, and tired. 

Charlotte closes her eyes and presses her right hand to her left cheek, strokes it gently, like Ted does. Imagines she smells chai and smoke and birch tar. Tears well up in her eyes, unasked for, and she feels them drop into the pillow, wet on the side of her face. She wipes them away like Ted would, gentle, and tries not to make a sound. Sam shifts, but doesn’t wake.

She doesn’t love him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1- Ted has… more than a few issues left over from the particulars of his first few years as a vampire. He’s Not Okay. Nobody in this story really is, at this point.
> 
> 2- Charlotte is 100% in denial. Don’t think for a moment that this is some “will they or won’t they” bullshit, she and Ted can, must, should and WILL eventually work things out. They just both have a ways to go first.
> 
> 3- Walker Wallace is a jackass and thinks he’s hot shit, but at least he’s cute. Charlotte never intended for him to be anything more than a one-night stand l m a o

**Author's Note:**

> The thing about Ted’s fangs being longer and sharper than Sam’s really does come off as a metaphorical dick joke, but I swear I meant it as a device for how Ted makes things quick and easy when he has to feed whereas Sam just really. Does Not. Being stabbed with a knife is so much easier than having someone try to push a pencil into your kidney, y’know? Ted’s a chill vampire. Sam is Not.
> 
> Also, the song on the radio can be either “Two Slow Dancers” by Mitski or “Falling” by Julee Cruise, depending on how Twin Peaks you want that scene to be.


End file.
